You have had it. It has been three months since you gave birth and you cannot stand to look at your own reflection in the mirror. Although you have purchased a hole bunch of must have outfits, you are still in great difficulty to find something decent to wear, when you and your baby take your daily walk down the park. You are convinced that gravity only exists to push you down to depression route, as some of your body parts are so misbehaved and disobedient. Therefore, it is about time you took action. You find yourself getting ready for your first day at the gym:

Ignoring your at home electrical safety policies, you plug in both breast pumps. You are certain that your stereo milk production will save you more time to indulge yourself at the gym whilst doubling baby bottle material.

You give clear verbal and written instructions for how the baby should be handled, followed by messages via all communication apps on your phone, many of them accompanied by siren-like sounds. These instructions refer to what exactly needs to be done in those two hours of intense gym workout, namely answers to common questions (such as: What to do if she wakes up? What to do if she cries? What to do if she eats? What to do if she poops? What to do if she doesn’t poop?) and answers to more complex issues that cover the whole spectrum of pediatrics – in which you have gained remarkable experience whilst trying to find a decent pediatrician for your baby.

You check the gym classes schedule and you loudly express your lack of gratitude to the gym manager who, apparently, did not take into account your daily routine (whichever that might or might not be) when scheduling yoga classes at 7 am.

Despite all odds, you decide to take a chance on the fitness equipment. You weren’t quite sure how all those UFOs wannabes were supposed to work before you got pregnant but, somehow, you feel confident that the wisdom that comes with motherhood will get you through the day.

You pedantically start packing your gym bag, forgetting for a second that you are not packing a hospital bag, neither a luggage for a three day trip to the spa, trip that you have been day dreaming about for the last three months.

You have made it out of the house. There is no way back now.

You get to your parking space and, to your surprise, you find your car is covered in snow. Thoughts of giving up are tormenting you because you know that it will take you at least 20 minutes to clear the snow off the car and get behind the wheels. Driven by divine forces, your hands clean anything and everything that stands between them and the steering wheel. When on Earth did winter arrive?

You have made it to the gym. To your big disappointment, of all days, today, when you got your bag ready, prepared baby bottles, trained your husband, washed your hair (!), that wretched manager closed the gym for technical revision.

All good. You decide to go to the pool. After all, you have packed your swimming suit too, thinking that those extra drops of sweat at the sauna will make the difference.

Surprised again. Since three years ago, when you last placed a foot in the gym, their policy has changed. It is now mandatory to wear a swimming hat! The lady at the counter reads the despair on your face and before you even have the chance to ask if there are any for sale, she kindly lends you one. There is a God! You may now approach the pool.

You find your way to the locker room. You duck away from those 17 newly placed mirrors, installed with the obvious purpose of hurting your retina and you get on with changing into your swimming suit. You are quite content that you have somehow managed to tuck in all your extra outbuildings, without splitting your suit up. God Bless Lycra!

Enthusiastic, you approach the swimming hat and carefully place all your rebel (or may i say unbrushed) curls into it, as if you would not want a single hair – which has not been touched by saloon conditioner in months – to contact the pool water. There was no point in washing your hair for the day, after all.

You accidentally see your reflection in the window and you are now convinced you look like a tiny alien ready for attack. Still, you bravely decide to face that lot in the pool looking smug because they must surely be hiding their overweight flab under the privacy of the water. At the end of the day, your goal is to get as fit as you can in the remaining time of the two hours, so that you can make up for the lost training years.

If for one moment you have forgotten about your maternity worries, whilst trying to test the water temperature with the gracious tip of your toes, you realize that your breasts started to pour with milk. See you next month, dear pool! With a little bit of luck…